


Before, After, And Now

by alafaye



Series: Through Life [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-18
Updated: 2012-07-18
Packaged: 2017-11-10 06:01:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/463000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alafaye/pseuds/alafaye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was life after the jump, there was Mary, and then there was Sherlock and Mary, and then just Sherlock. Life isn't kind to John, but it also kind of is. </p><p>Warning for minor character death and miscarriage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before, After, And Now

**Author's Note:**

> This is not the story about the Fall or how John coped or about John/Mary. This is about John and Sherlock and a little bit John/Sherlock.

"What's this?" Mary asked, holding out a book of matches.

John blinked and took them from her. He half smiled and sucked in a ragged breath of air. "Case. Ah, it was...a while ago."

She smiled. "Good. I was hoping you hadn't lied to me about being a non smoker."

He chuckled and put the matches on the bedside table. He pulled her closer and she settled over his lap, warm and pleasant. He kissed her, one hand cupping her cheek. "I am very honest about myself."

She rested her forehead against his. "Endearingly and heartbreakingly honest, yes."

He frowned. "What?"

She sat up and licked her lips. "John, do you honestly believe that any other woman would have stood by while you mourned a past relationship?"

"Mary, no," John moaned. "I wasn't--I never--"

She put her finger on his lips. "John Hamish Watson, don't you dare lie to me or yourself." He flushed and looked away. "I'd have been blind to not notice that your heart was pining for a man who was gone." She turned his head back to face her. "And I would have been cruel to refuse you when you were obviously trying to return to something that was a new beginning."

He rested his hand on her swollen stomach. "And it is." Their son kicked his hands and he laughed. "Footballer do you think?"

She laughed and continued with the conversation change. Later, when she had fallen asleep and he was unable to sleep, he took the matches off the nightstand. The paper was blank except for the band on the back for striking the matches and the inside contained only a few matches, standing upright and still like a line of soldiers. He kissed Mary's forehead and slipped out of the bed. In the kitchen, he could barely hear the sounds of London--despite technically being in the London area, he and Mary lived in a suburb, a place for families to grow.

Preparing a cup of tea was, as usual, soothing. Kettle. Cup. Tea bag. Milk. He half laughed--never ran out of milk now. Mary was very good about doing the shopping. John knew he was pretty lucky to have even gotten a date with her, but it only took a spilled cup of coffee and an offer to replace it for an impromptu date to happen. From there, it kind of happened magically.

 _Much like it had with Sherlock_ his mind unhelpfully supplied.

He sighed and shook his head. The matches had come from that man at the palace--John had wondered why Sherlock would need them being on the patch again and all. On the way back to Baker St., Sherlock had given them to John and John, wrongly assuming that Sherlock had merely taken them as a dig, took them, intending to throw them out later. But when Sherlock described what he wanted John to do, John was rather glad he hadn't. He had wished, though, that Sherlock would explain things sooner. (He shuddered, remembering a case where they'd been kidnapped because Sherlock hadn't informed John of the plan.)

He sat at the kitchen table, cup in hand, and made a resolution then and there that he would be a better partner for Mary--that he really needed to move on from Sherlock and Baker St. and cases. That was all before. Now there was his wife and their child and a home in the suburbs and his patients.

~~~

Mary wondered if maybe she had died. The doctor had warned her it could happen at any time. The tumor continued to grow as her son grew and as the pregnancy continued, the risks climbed. She had so far continued to keep it a secret from John--though for how much longer, she wasn't sure. Matthew kept John at the office when she had an appointment, but he kept telling her that she couldn't keep the tumor a secret forever and had even threatened to tell John himself if she didn't. 

Still, if something had happened and she had died, she wondered why Sherlock Holmes was going to be inviting her to...wherever one went when one died.

"Ah," Sherlock Holmes said. He nodded once and turned around.

She couldn't have died. It was a bit surreal if she had died and the first person she met in the after life was Sherlock Holmes. It meant that this was life and she was alive and so was Sherlock Holmes. As John had suspected. She ran down the path and stepped in front of Sherlock. "You will go right back inside and we will have a proper chat over a cup of tea."

He raised an eyebrow at her and then looked around (she looked next door herself and noted the flutter of a curtain). He sighed and walked back into the house. She glared at her neighbors--lovely neighborhood and everyone got along, but couldn't they mind their own business once in a while?--and followed him in. Despite what John had said about him, Sherlock was easily putting together tea for two.

"Sit," he said. "You shouldn't be doing much in your condition."

"I'm only pregnant," she said weakly. He couldn't know more than that. Could he?

"No," Sherlock said. "You're doing fine keeping it a secret, but not from me."

She let out a soft breath. "You really are that good. How'd you know?"

"Despite being only six months along, you walk as though you are nine," Sherlock said. "You have stress lines along your forehead and eyes and you wince when you walk. Your back is likely hurting from the weight, but you are instead pressing a hand to the underside of your expanded womb."

She nodded. "Of course."

"Don't worry," he said. "No one else will tell."

She chuckled ruefully. "Even my mother can't and she always knew when I was telling a lie."

He handed her a cup of a herbal tea and he sat across from her at the little kitchen table. "So, John is...fine?"

She wrapped her hands around her cup. "Fine? Well, he's getting there. He wasn't when I met him, two years ago, but he's better now."

"A child does wonders for a man's psyche," Sherlock said. "Either way."

"It does." She smiled as she remembered his face when she told him. At first, she'd thought he was upset, but then he smiled, smiled wider than she'd ever seen him smile and he had asked her then and there to marry him. Not out of obligation, but out of happiness. She played with her wedding ring, knowing she'd made John jump through hoops to prove he truly wanted to marry her.

"He always had a soft spot for when there were children involved in a case," Sherlock said. "There were two little ones who came to me asking why they hadn't been allowed to see their grandfather after he had died. I...may have been more callous than needed, but I told them that he hadn't gone to heaven. That he'd been burned instead. John offered them a cup of cocoa."

Mary smiled softly. "That's John."

Sherlock cleared his throat. "I'm not here to take him away. Especially now--his child should know that John will be there for him and not out running after a madman and his cases."

"Thank you," Mary said. "And for not assuming that I'll die in the birth."

Sherlock remained closed lipped after that. She nervously sipped hers, unable to stop herself, needing the distraction. She cleared her throat. "Please stay. Until he's home. Don't leave. I want him to know you're alive."

Sherlock blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"You obviously came here looking for him and when you realized that he isn't just living with a girlfriend, but living with his wife and unborn child, you were going to leave. I'm asking you not to. Don't. He deserves to know you're alive."

"He deserves to know about the tumor," Sherlock countered.

She flushed and looked away. "I know I haven't behaved honorably, but--" She froze when his hand covered hers. She looked at him, wide eyed and he was starting at her intently.

"I honestly believe you have been the best thing I could have ever hoped to happen for John," Sherlock said. "His girlfriends while he was living with me had to put up with him dropping everything for a case--for me--and forgetting dates and all such nonsense. I doubt anyone could have had such a loyal friend. I repaid him by making him see me jump off a roof and thinking I was dead. Your reaction to me tells me everything I need to know about John and his state of mind. If I could have ever done anything for him except for not telling him it was a ruse, I would have wanted him to have someone like yourself."

She studied his face, the earnest honesty in it. "There were so many rumors about you, before and after, you know. And John's told me a few times that everyone assumed you couldn't possibly be human because of your lack of emotion. Clearly they didn't look hard enough or listen well."

Sherlock scoffed. "People rarely do."

She smiled. "He said you said that a lot."

He looked into his cup for a long moment. "My brother was rather difficult to obtain information from, about John. He only told me he lived here. Would you mind if--"

"I meet him about two years ago now," she began. "He looked rather lost when we ran into each other. Literally. In front of a cafe. I was going to an interview and just needed a quick jump start for my day. Not quite sure how we bumped into each other, but there it was. He was present, a bit, but also a little lost. Unsure of exactly where he was. And we talked after and I completely missed my interview, but that was all right. I think he needed someone to talk to. Someone not his therapist."

Sherlock was enraptured as she continued, how their relationship wasn't really a relationship because she refused to be in a love triangle that involved a dead man. It continued because John Watson was a man worth waiting for and she was not going to give him up. And it looked like the bit of normal she could give him was doing wonders.

They talked long into the day until John came home from work.

~~~

Sherlock's calm shattered little by little every time Mary looked at the clock. Her calm control shook more as the minutes passed. Somehow, without them ever bringing the subject up, they knew John would be home soon and the little tete-a-tete they were sharing would end. They knew that the quiet the neighborhood kept would be shattered. Sherlock wondered when and how John had exercised his cold anger in front of Mary--was it at her? at a rude stranger? at a relative?--but that was just one little bit of data missing from Sherlock's file of John's life. 

John. JohnJohnJohn.

Sherlock wondered at his own reaction. Living together in Baker St., John certainly had occupied a corner of Sherlock's thoughts simply by being a man whose loyalty and friendship was unparalled in Sherlock's life. It was impossible to ignore John when he demanded Sherlock at least pretend he was a normal human being, that he eat regularly, and do something other than stare into a microscope. He'd shot a man dead, chased him around London, tackled criminals, been injured, and at the end of the day, giggle and offer Sherlock a cup of tea.

The public had all offered their opinion on Sherlock's and John's friendship-relationship-what-is-it. Friends? Lovers? Coworkers? Associates? Sherlock could never define it and it frustrated him to no end. He knew human relationships--it was important to his work. Knowing how humans interacted and how they related to one another helped him solve crimes. And yet all of those definitions failed him when he considered John and himself.

Friends, most assuredly. There was no one else Sherlock could consider a friend, exactly, but he had never expected one. There were school chums and former roommates, but none of them could be considered a friend. Lovers--oh, now that was a different question all together. If one decided to remove sex from such a question, it was certainly within the realm of possibility but equally untrue. There were sexless romantic relationships that were as intimate as the sexual ones. How did one define romance? Love? Loath as Sherlock could admit it, he understood that it was more than a chemical reaction. Why else could there be couples in their golden years when the human body was far from the height of functioning?

No, there was no defining it. It simply was. A relationship that defied current definitions of any given relationship--fleeting to something deeper--which had caused Sherlock's heart to break just a bit when he saw John's face as he took that step off the roof of St Bart's. 

In the last three years of hunting down Moriarty's network, Sherlock found himself talking aloud to John. Never the skull or Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade or any number of items or people. Sherlock turned to grin at John after taking down Perez in South America and shared a giggle when Peterson fell into a skip in America. Sherlock woke a number of times from thinking on a problem with John's name on his lips--"John, we need to--"

Deep breath. John wasn't there. John thought he was dead. John had married Mary and they had created a life that would likely die before it could draw an independent breath. John's wife-with-cancer who was watching as the door opened.

Sherlock's only thought as John dropped his briefcase was _John_.

~~~

Oh, god. This was it. John needed to kindly explain to Mary that he needed her to get his therapist's number because there was an emergency and wasn't this just the perfect time for it? He calmly closed the door and took a deep breath. When he turned back, the hallucination of Sherlock was still there, sitting at the kitchen table, cup of tea nearby. God, what had caused this? Maybe it was Matthew's news before he left the clinic. 

Matthew's news.

He turned from the Sherlock-hallucination and narrowed his eyes at Mary. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Her hand settled on her stomach and her eyes teared up. "Matthew told you."

"Of course he did!" John said. "I should have known something was up--he was constantly piling the work on when you had an appointment. I never could have thought that it was so you could hide the fact that you're dying!"

There it was, out in the open. Mary had a tumor that was slowly killing her and quite possibly their son. He stumbled into an armchair and covered his face with his hands. "How could you?"

Mary sobbed. "I'm sorry, John. I didn't know how to. You were just so happy. I couldn't--"

A chair scrapped across the floor and John nodded. "Good, you need to rest. Don't--I'll call Matthew in the morning and tell him I need some time off."

"John," the Sherlock-hallucination said.

"Don't," Mary said. "Leave him be for a moment, Sherlock."

John looked up--Mary was looking at the Sherlock-hallucination. "And now we're sharing a delusion. I can't believe this."

"I'm real, John," Sherlock said with a frown. "I'm alive. Call Mycroft if you--"

"Mycroft, right," John said with a sharp intake of breath. Mycroft owed John and now was the perfect time to call in that debt. "He can get the best doctors for you, Mary. We'll find a way to save you and our son. And...I don't know, he'll know what to do about Sherlock."

Mary's hand came up to cover her mouth. As tears began to fall down her face, John blacked out from the stress.

~~~

A hand was covering his when he woke up. A decidedly male hand. He groaned. "Go 'way, Mycroft."

A sigh. "John."

John opened his eyes and met Sherlock's grey-blue ones. He twisted his hand and felt Sherlock's real hand. "I didn't know my mind was this barmy to make up such a real illusion."

"I'm afraid it's true," Mycroft said, entering the room. "Sherlock is alive. He never died."

John narrowed his eyes and looked between the brothers. He depressed the button for a nurse and waited in tense silence, glaring at both brothers. A nurse hurried in moments after the button had been pushed. "It's good to see that you're awake, Mr. Watson," she said. "Your doctor will be thrilled and I'm sure your wife will be as well."

"How many men are in this room?" John ground out.

Her hand froze as it reached toward his IV bag. "Sir?"

"How many men?" John spat.

She twitched. "Three. Yourself, Mr. Holmes, and Mr. Holmes." She looked between them and decided to get out of the room. She quickly finished up a check of John and his vitals and the equipment and left.

John pulled his hand out of Sherlock's and clenched it into a fist. "You--you--bastard!"

An elderly woman passing by with another nurse gasped and hurried on her way. John shook his head. "I can't...you...you let me think you were dead! You forced me to listen to your fucking suicide note and watch you jump off your favorite building in the world and see your damned bloody corpse!"

Sherlock had looked away as John continued and looked guilty. John couldn't believe it though. He couldn't. There was no way he'd believe it ever again. Whatever delusions Sherlock had labored under, John would have no part in them. He'd had nightmares for months after that fall and had kept him from giving Mary his full attention for the first year and a half of their relationship. A year and a half he could have spent being happily married and just maybe with a child who'd be at least a few months old or so he could have dreamed.

"If you do not give me full and complete proof of why you did it, there will never be a way for me to forgive you," he finished his tirade. Sherlock looked up hopeful. John shook his head. "No, it will take me months to forgive you. But I'll only ever do it if you give me proof. And tell me exactly why I needed to be lied to."

Sherlock nodded. "Mycroft?"

"On its way, John," Mycroft said.

"Where's Mary?" John asked.

"Being examined by a private doctor," Mycroft said. "Your distress caused a bit of trouble for her and she had to admitted. She's fine now, both her and the baby, but I arranged for an appointment with a specialist."

John nodded. "Thank you."

A phone beeped and Mycroft sighed. "I must go. My assistant will be along shortly to give you the folder. Sherlock." The last was more of a warning than any command and Mycroft left silently. 

Sherlock took a deep breath. "John." He stopped, looking lost.

"Get out," John said quietly.

Sherlock paused only for a moment before leaving. Only when he was sure that Sherlock was rooms away did the tears fall.

~~~

Mary looked up as footsteps approached. This section of the private hospital was the quietest place she'd ever been in. She'd only seen two other patients here and they were as silent as she had been in her awe. That Mycroft Holmes could arrange this for her...British government, indeed. It nevertheless did not change anything about her diagnosis. It remained bleak for both her and her baby.

Sherlock stopped in front of her and frowned. "Nothing?"

She shook her head. "The tumor is too progressed. Even if I wasn't pregnant, there would nothing they can do." She sniffed and clutched tighter to the tissue box a kind nurse had given her. "I know the stories about miracles and wrong diagnosis, but I just--"

He offered her his arm. "I'm sorry."

She leaned into him gratefully. "Take me to John?" 

Even as he lead her to the elevators, he cautioned her. "This may not be the best time."

"He deserves to know," she said firmly.

"That you're dying?" Sherlock asked.

And more, she thought but didn't say. How could she? She doubted that Sherlock could understand the philosophical argument at work here. When Sherlock was gone, John had Mary. Now that Sherlock was back, John would lose Mary. She clenched her hand where it lay on Sherlock's arm and wondered what else life would have in store for John. Would he ever catch a break?

There were worse situations, of course. Even if Sherlock was less verse in emotional matters, Sherlock cared for John and would be there for him when Mary was gone. Sherlock could provide distractions--she didn't doubt that being back in London and showing that he was alive to John meant that Sherlock was back on the case. It would be a good distraction. And while it was a distraction, John would have a healthy outlet for his emotions so he could process them as he grew in them.

The hospital corridors became busier the closer they got to John's room, but no one questioned their right to be there. Sherlock left her at John's room and left in a flurry of coat. She half smiled--John would have been a wonderful father if he could deal with Sherlock Holmes.

"Hello, love," she called out. She shuffled in and gratefully sat in these wonderful chairs. Being private was a good thing, she decided.

John smiled at her and reached for her hand that she gave happily. "I am ever so glad to see someone reasonable."

She frowned. "But--"

He shook his head. "No. I am angry that you didn't tell me, but I think you must have had a good reason. I trust you."

"Oh, John."

"So, tell me, what can the private doctor do for you?" he asked hopefully.

He looked so earnest and hopeful. Her heart broke for him. She looked away. "I'm too far along with the pregnancy. There's nothing that can be done."

"You're seven months along, yeah?" he pressed. "Couldn't they perform a cesarean section and then remove the tumor?"

"No," she said, turning back. She wished she could take away all those worry lines and give him some good news. He didn't deserve this. Not a man like John Watson. Not John Watson. "The baby couldn't survive. He's too weak from sharing a body that's sick with cancer." Privately, it was that part that made her upset the most. That it was her body that was killing the child. There was no chance for her baby to survive because she couldn't give the baby what he needed. She wasn't a fit mother. She hiccuped as tears began falling again. She covered her mouth with her hand, trying to keep quiet.

"Hey, now, hush," John said. He coaxed her into his small bed and wrapped his arms around her. "Shh. It's not your fault. Not your fault. Do you hear me? It isn't."

"But it is, John," she whispered. "I can't give your son what he needs. I'm killing him."

"No, you stop that," he said brokenly. "Don't blame yourself. Blame...I don't know. The goddamn chemicals everywhere. Isn't that what those health reports keep saying? I know I read somewhere that it's all the chemicals that are making us sick all the time. Blame them. They're at fault for causing the tumor. Do you hear me?"

~~~

Sherlock wrapped his hands around his knees and buried his face in them. The best doctors Mycroft could find and there was nothing to be done. John was hurting. Mary, the angel for his John, was dying.

 _Can't you do anything?_ he sent to Mycroft.

_I'm afraid not. These things happen, Sherlock. You know that._

He winced. Those exact words had been said when Mycroft told him that Mummy was dying. _What good is medical science, then? That it can't give John this?_

_Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock._

_Stuff it. Or better yet, stuff yourself. What good are you?_

There was a telling silence from Mycroft and Sherlock knew he should take it back, but he couldn't. Wouldn't. 

Sherlock had asked Mycroft to watch out for John while he hunted down Moriarty's network and yet, there was this.

 

_**Rage rage against the dying of the night** _

 

_John Hamish Watson. An ordinary, British name. I'd heard of it, of course. One would have to be in a locked bunker to not have. His name was there in the papers, on the tele, on the internet every time Sherlock Holmes was mentioned. The bacherlor side kick. Rumors and questions and all of that. Our society lives on it, doesn't it? Assuming that roommates means something else._

_Sometimes I think we read too much into other lives. I wonder what it says about us?_

_When he said his name was John Watson, I decided to pretend like I didn't know the name. He looked like he could do with a kindness and I kept thinking these past weeks what it must be like for someone in that position. Well, okay, I'd always wondered how celebrities must feel at the end of the day with the entire world pressing in, wanting to know and feeding off scrapes of your personal life. For someone like John Watson who had been with Sherlock at the height of his publicity and then see his fall...I wondered what I would feel in that position._

_John says that is one of my greatest strengths, my empathy._

_Oh, look at me. All rambly. It's difficult though to keep it all straight. There's so much that happened, is happening. Life is...difficult and different and my friends all say I'm mad. Suppose I must be. Or not. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson continue to show me that there can be more to life than just nine to five, mortgage, boxes, and labels._

_All right. Let's start again. John Watson and the day he met me._

_It was raining a bit and I took cover under the awning of a cafe. A little family owned business. I had left my flat early for my interview at the office and I could wait a bit for the rain to stop so I turned to go inside for a cuppa. And ran straight into John as he was leaving. I was thankful later that I'd closed my coat and the only thing that got tea covered was that. I wouldn't have to pop home to change, you know. But at the time, it was all sorts of awkward, like it always is. Strangers bump into one another and one of them spills their hot drink. Some would be angry, I suppose._

_Except that John was so adorable, flushed and stumbling over himself in apology and ushering me inside so he could get some napkins to help me dry off. I think I loved him then, adorable John Watson in a jacket and sweater and just a little crazy as he tried to sooth the accident over. I stopped his hand gently, with a soft smile, letting him know it was all right, it was just on my jacket, no worries. He looked...I dunno, relieved I think. Kind of hard to describe._

_I couldn't help myself, flirting--I coyly told him that as he looked like he was going to need to buy another drink, he could get me one as an apology. He is my type--blond, cuddly, short, just this side of humble. He blushed, cleared his throat, and nodded. I sat down at a free table and he returned moments later with two cups. We started talking and flirting. I thought I was coming on too strong, but then sometimes he would get a little closer and I decided that maybe strong was what John liked. The minutes slipped by too fast and before I knew it, I had completely missed my interview._

_He looked like he wanted to offer his number, but also scared, like he wasn't sure. I was confused because I thought he was the type who wouldn't have any trouble giving a girl his number. I decided to take a chance--we'd flirted so well and I liked him. So I gave him my number instead and my name and told him to call me soon. He smiled and nodded and then he gave his in return. And the look on his face when I told him I didn't recognize him...oh, I wanted so much to hug him, to let him know it was okay. I couldn't, of course, that would be too strong. (I do now, though, when he looks like he needs one. He always smiles after.)_

_He called me that night and we talked for hours. And then there lunch dates and dinner and then the bedroom. I eventually fell in love with him, despite my better judgement._

_Because see, here's the thing. The whole point of why I'm writing this. So that everyone will know why I decided to keep John Watson, but why it took us so long. I fell in love with a man who lost his spouse._

_Oh, don't like that, please don't. The rumors aren't true, they really aren't. John and Sherlock defy what we know of relationships and friendships and the nature of love. It's rare, their kind of love and friendship, but they've got it._

_I knew on our second date. He couldn't stop talking about Sherlock or their flat or their life together. They were an extension of the other, you see? Best friends right up to death. The papers all said that Sherlock was a fraud who couldn't bear the lie any longer and finally killed himself. Only John refused to believe it. He even explained to me how he knew that Sherlock wasn't a fake._

_At the end of our second date, I made it clear to him that I knew he wanted to move on, to accept his new life and I would love to be the one he moved on with. But only if he was really and truly ready. I kissed him on the cheek, squeezed his hand, and went inside as though it was all right._

_It kind of wasn't though. John Watson was kind of broken now. A part of his life had been taken from him and he was only beginning to adjust. As a spouse would. Painfully, slowly, with more pain than the death itself had caused. I had avoided dating men like that, men who were lost without their partner or last girlfriend or boyfriend. I did once and it hurt. There's nothing quite like being the rebound._

_It kind of was all right though. Because even though John Watson was grieving and moving on, I could sense that he needed someone stable and balanced and just the right amount of patient. I was always the stable one among my family and my friends. And it was always possible for the one left behind to make a new life. I just knew John Watson was worth the wait. I only had to be patient._

_John called me after two weeks and asked me out to dinner. He talked less of Sherlock, more about himself, and asked me about myself. He was ready. He had accepted his new life and was open again to intimacy (and not just sexual)._

_It was good for a long time. Oh, I think it must have been almost a year. John and I found a little flat to share together and we both employed. I as a secretary and he at his own practice. And then there was little Hamish. A surprise. I'd been feeling off, but I didn't think anything of it. I was on the pill and I hadn't been sick recently--hadn't taken anything to interfere with the birth control, I mean. I was careful. We were careful. Not that we didn't want children--we just weren't ready yet. We thought we'd give it a try in a year or two._

_And yet there he was, Hamish. Our little boy. I couldn't believe it, but there you have it._

_I only wished I could have given him an actual life instead of the just the beginning of one. John keeps telling me it isn't my fault, that there's something else that did this, but it's kind of true, right? That instead of giving my boy what he needed to grow strong and be healthy and bring a smile to his dad's face when John holds him the first time, I developed a tumor that stole life from my son._

_I...I wish that I could have forseen all of this when we ran into each other in the little cafe. I never wanted to be someone else to cause him pain. It's not really my fault, of course. I just wish it could have been different. If I had known, I would have just walked away. I would have._

_When I was dating John, I had discovered that he suspected that Sherlock was alive. I'd gone with him to the cemetary and I'd turned away to give John some privacy. I was far enough away that I should not have heard, but he all but yelled it. Telling Sherlock to stop this madness and come home. It was odd for me--we had just moved into a flat together and seemed to be making a life together. Yet here he was, demanding that Sherlock come home. I felt a bit like the other woman to be honest. Because as I said, John and Sherlock had shared something, something that was as intimate as having a spouse._

_To see Sherlock was indeed alive was not quite such a surprise really. And I knew I couldn't let him leave. Not at least without telling John. But I wanted more from Sherlock at time went on._

_Sherlock was with us from the moment he came to our house to see John. I believe that he couldn't leave as much as we couldn't let him go. Our strange little family. I sometimes dreamed of what a life it could have been--Sherlock at Baker St., but visiting often to see John. John working at the clinic, but also following Sherlock around London again. Little Hamish and I waiting with smiles and open arms. I would have shared John. There would have been nothing strange about it, for me._

_Do you know, I think I fell a little in love with Sherlock myself? I think he just tolerates me, though, because I'm part of John. John's wife so therefore Sherlock had to at least respect me. I know he treated John's girlfriends with disdain before, but Sherlock has said to me that I'm different and that I've made John happy and if I can make John happy, then of course I'm all right in Sherlock's books. (I think he had to know that I would never force John to choose. That I would have let them go on doing what they do without any argument other than asking John to know his son.)_

_I've extracted promises from Sherlock. He would take care of John and he would never leave John behind again. I told him what I knew of John's past, of the time after Sherlock's death. The wound it had made in him and the loss that he had suffered. Sherlock could not do that again. Oh, of course he could still be the same idiot who callously treated John's friendship like it was nothing--John would expect nothing less. However, John was not to be left behind again._

_Sherlock promised earnestly. He didn't make it lightly, either. I could see in his eyes that the time apart had hurt him, as well. I was pleased to know John wasn't in any way loving unrequitedly._

_John came home then--he'd been at the office, distracting himself with work. I left them with a small smile for a lie down until supper. I don't know happened then, but I do know that when John came to bed that night, he seemed...calmer somehow. I know I was--John wasn't going to be left alone when I was gone. It was a great comfort for me._

_Sherlock moved back into the Baker Street flat in no time and his return was quickly picked up on. It was why he was often at the house. He was quick on his feet and was able to lose any fans or press and since none of them knew about the house--John somehow seemed to be off their radar--Sherlock would often kip on the sofa. Not the best position, but he seemed okay with it. He and John were back solving crimes again, thick as thieves they were. I recall waking up from a nap and going to the kitchen to get a snack and they were in the sitting room, discussing something or other. I stopped and watched and smiled._

_John was working when it happened, but Sherlock was there. I got this funny feeling and I knew what it meant. I must have made a small noise because suddenly Sherlock was at my elbow, asking if I needed help. I looked at him and asked if he could call an ambulance. He knew. It took only moments, but I was soon back in the private hospital his brother had arranged and John was there. Sherlock hovered, watching over us both._

_Everyone--us, the doctors--were surprised it had taken this long for complications to become this bad. There was blood and I grew faint and I was quickly prepared for emergency surgery. When I woke up, Hamish was gone. I was still weak--there was nothing that could be done about the tumor and I was given at the most a week. I asked after my son and the doctors explained that there was enough for us to bury. I was glad--it would help John to have a grave to visit. I hoped I could be buried next to my son._

_I asked John for a moment to myself and he left, Sherlock on his heels. A nurse brought me a pen and paper so I could write this down._

_And I'm writing this, as I said, to explain. Because you see my mum knew and my friends knew. They saw it at the rehearsal dinner for the wedding. Someone mentioned Sherlock. And while my friends or my mum were never as clever as I was paying attention to emotional cues, some of them saw the way John's face became pinched. They talked about it and cornered me to make sure that I was making the right decision._

_It came bubbling out, accidentally, as they had me cornered and were nagging and demanding. I told them that John suspected that Sherlock was alive. It made only it worse. They wanted to know how could I want to be with that kind of man--someone delusional, someone who was gay, someone who was still apparently attached to his former lover. There were some wild accusations. I couldn't really give an answer._

_Now I can._

_You've seen how we met, that we gradually fell in love. At the least, it was that John needed someone calm and stable and patient; I wanted to be someone to be relied on. Only there was love. There really was. Yet we both were aware that my time with John was only for a little while._

_Regardless of what Sherlock Holmes may believe, the universe does take care of certain people. It watches over those like Sherlock who do good things. It watches over men like John who are loyal and brave and earnest and demand that people be more honest. Sherlock was doing what he is meant to do--he was stopping Moriarty's network once and for all, stopping crime and the harm of innocents. In the mean time, John needed someone to prop him up, to make him forget the hole his life now had._

_I loved John and that was what he needed. He loved me in return in a way he could and that was worth it all. Because even a little of John's love is worth more than the love I'd ever had with my former boyfriends. The least I could do is hold him together until Sherlock came back._

_So now my family and friends know. Now I can go and see Hamish and tell him what a wonderful father he has and what an amazing family he has, one that includes Sherlock Holmes whom I have no doubt would have given the world to make John's son happy. And together they taught me that love isn't clearly defined or ruled by certain societical demands. Love spans the grave and spans lovers and can be multiple forms all at once. It's beautiful and for the short time I had with John, I was grateful and in love and amazed and awed._

_I married John because I love him. In his own way, he loved me. That was why I married him--because he did love me. And it could have made a happy home._

_But even as it won't, that's okay. Because John has Sherlock. A different life, but one that he is suited to. I am glad to know he'll have it._

 

**_I like living. I have sometimes been wildly, despairingly, acutely miserable, racked with sorrow, but through it all I still know quite certainly that just to be alive is a grand thing._ **

 

John traced the words of the headstone slowly. He refused to look at the one next to it. He couldn't. His son who had never breathed air outside of his mother's womb, who would never play in the park or ask John lots of silly questions or ask who that nice madman was. _Mary Elizabeth Morstan Watson_ God, John had wondered why she would keep her maiden name. Such a mouthful.

His phone rang in his pocket and he winced at the name on the screen. "Matthew."

"Hey, John," Matthew said. "I know you thought you were clear, but I've got one last bit of paperwork for you to sign. Mind coming over?"

John sighed and stood. He brushed the dirt from his pants. "The clinic?"

"My flat," Matthew said.

John sensed a trap, but it would be rude not to and he didn't have any available reason to not go. Besides, if it was just one last paper, there'd be no harm. He hoped. "Be there in half an hour."

"Thanks." 

John closed the phone and nodded at the gravestone. At Mary. "See you, love." His eyes slid over to the other, smaller headstone. _Hamish John Watson_ He shook his head and turned sharply away.

~~~

Sherlock was solid where John was subtly leaning against him. The hospital was leaving them alone for another half hour to allow some private grievance time. Mycroft had sent a text to Sherlock's phone with his sympathies, but both John and Sherlock had preferred if Mycroft had said nothing. John drew in a sharp breath through his nose and looked away from the bed.

"She gave me so much, but the one thing I think she'll be able to give me is not coming back," John said.

Sherlock shifted uneasily in his seat. "John--"

"Don't," John hissed. "Just...answer me this, Sherlock. Tell me honestly and do not do anything but give me a simply yes or no. Understand?" Silence. "Have you ever lost someone close to you?" John still didn't know about Sherlock's parents, if they were alive or dead, if they had been British or from America or some other country. Rich? Poor? Thieves? Scientists? It didn't matter. John was not the sort of man who asked questions whose answers were not even alluded to. He didn't pry. But just this once, he needed Sherlock to understand.

"My father died before I could remember him," Sherlock said quietly. "But my mother--yes, John, I've lost someone very close to me."

"Thank you," John said. "Can you remember how you felt when she was dead? Now, imagine if she came back two years later, alive and whole and telling you it was only a ruse because she had _business_ to attend to?"

Sherlock was quiet for several long minutes. John couldn't look at him, choosing to stare at some odd little water stain in a corner of the floor. "I'm sorry, John," Sherlock said finally, voice cracking not with the apology but with the emotion that John had emplored him to grasp at.

John took a deep breath. "Closure is...to get it, the person needs to stay dead. And to keep it, to keep one's grasp on sanity and reality, one needs that person to stay dead."

Sherlock cleared his throat. "I understand."

"And I know you'd do it again in a heartbeat, you bastard," John said.

Sherlock slumped in his seat. "I did it for you. For Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade."

"For the friends you claimed you didn't have," John said bitterly.

"I couldn't conceive that I had any," Sherlock said. "I didn't know his name is Greg, John. What does that say about me?"

"And yet Greg completely believed that you had never lied," John countered. "All of us, faithful to Sherlock Holmes who repaid our loyalty with--"

"Your lives," Sherlock said. "Even though I was dead, it was my life for yours."

John thinks of the folder that is still waiting for him to read. The last two years of Sherlock's life, his work, waiting for John to read. Is that what had happened? He wonders why they haven't talked of it yet. How John has let Sherlock go back to Baker St. and get him drawn back into the crazy life of chasing down criminals without talking about this. Now they are while his wife is dead. Mary--John knew that she didn't know either what Sherlock had gotten up to, but she had taken Sherlock in as much as she had John. She'd forgiven him simply because she knew that Sherlock loved John in a way that she herself did. It was all she had needed to know--that Sherlock loved John. 

"Mary demanded I stay that day," Sherlock said. "I came looking for you and I turned away. I refused to break what life you had built."

"Oh, so you weren't going to let me know you were alive?" John asked hotly. "You were just going to recreate your life and go on and one day I'd open the papers and wonder what the hell someone was playing at, claiming that the great Sherlock Holmes had solved a new crime!"

Sherlock's answer was slow coming. "I admit I hadn't thought that far. I wanted to see you and your address was the only detail Mycroft would give me. When Mary answered the door, I only saw your life as it was."

"You knew she was dying," John whispered.

"Of course I did."

"If you had left, I don't think I could have forgiven you for that," John said quietly. "I don't know what the hell to do with you now you're back, but I can't imagine having anyone else here with me."

"Surely one of your friends--"

"Wouldn't have understood. Another death in my life and I am tired, so bloody tired, of hearing the same damned platitudes and sympathies and all that rot. And not a single one of them really knew what Mary meant to me." John scrubbed his face with his hands and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "And Mary was the only one who seemed to understand what you meant to me."

"You likely don't want to hear it, but you're very lucky to have people in your life who understand the closest relationships you have."

"Oh, shut up. You're worse at emotions than I am."

"Good. Then we both agree that we shall never discuss them again."

"Works for me. You're awful at being human."

"Which is why I need you. My blogger."

"Bugger off."

~~~

Matthew opened the door with a smile and ushered John into the sitting room. "Want a beer or anything?"

"Sure," John said. He tossed his jacket over the back of the sofa and sat. The paper waiting for his signature was on the coffee table and he looked it over. "So, what else do I need to sign over? Feels like I've signed over everything I've got already."

Matthew returned with two bottles and he handed one to John. "Just the release of the patient files to me. Forgot it in the rush of the transfer."

John nodded and grabbed a pen to sign. "Have you found a new partner yet?"

"Not one as highly recommended as you," Matthew said with a wink. John rolled his eyes, imagining what sort of tall tales Mary had told Matthew about John's medical career. 

"Why you ever took her advice to hire me on is beyond me," John said. "I would have been skeptical if a friend of mine said his girlfriend was an amazing doctor."

"Ah, well, now, Mary never told lies, really," Matthew said. "Most of my friends told me I was a nutter because surely the man who hung around the world's great fake detective had to be a liar himself and not one to be trusted. But Mary had never come to me to get a job for a friend or boyfriend."

John was silent, nursing his beer, wondering what Matthew had thought of him initially if that was what his friends thought. "Well, I'm glad you hired me."

"I could tell you were an all right sort of bloke," Matthew said. "Mary would never fall in with a tosser I told myself and when I met you and look over your CV, I decided that whatever the world could say about you or Sherlock Holmes, you were at least a good doctor."

"Ta," John said. 

Matthew nodded. "Are you going to find a new practice now?"

"Mm, don't know yet," John said.

Matthew was quiet, eyes trained on John. John nervously drank his beer. Matthew took a deep breath. "I know it probably isn't my place to say, but I have to say it, I think. I know the papers have been flooded with retractions and apologies for what they'd printed about Sherlock Holmes' being a liar. I've heard there are people looking to hire him to find out where they lost their necklace or where their relatives went. Like none of them had ever accused him of being a fake. But in all of that, no one has ever looked at John Watson.

"I don't know who you were with him or why you hung out with him. But I knew who you were when you were with Mary and working at the office with me. That man is John Watson as much as the other was. And I don't care what you say, you loved the job and the life you had with Mary. I understand wanting to make a clean break and move on, but do not dishonor her memory or yours by letting this part of you go completely. If you have to, force that Sherlock Holmes to retire one day to the countryside."

John nodded, not quite understanding, but knowing the emotion behind it was well meant.

"Good. Now, that's my piece said. Your turn--is he as mad as they say he is?"

John chuckled and gladly took the topic change.

~~~

John closed the door to the stairwell and hung his jacket up. Sherlock didn't stir from his position on the sofa, fingers pressed together under his chin. John made tea and sat on the coffee table. "We need to talk."

Sherlock took a deep breath and sat up. His eyes were completely focused on John. "I suppose we should."

"I have no idea what we need to talk about, though," John said unhappily.

"Nor I."

It was awkward and the silence oppressive. John knew that something needed to be said, but he didn't know what. He'd poured out his grievances to Sherlock's headstone and discussed this or that with the support group, but John had always, always, avoided what Sherlock had meant to him. Oh, that was what they needed to talk about.

"Us," John said. "I think."

Sherlock took a deep breath through his nose. "I suppose we do."

"I read the files last night," John said. Sherlock's eyes darkened and his face twitched. "That's...I still cannot comprehend how he did all of that."

"The criminally insane have an unique ability to manipulate others into doing what they want," Sherlock said. "Their ability to mimic others make people believe they are sincere or are on their side. In the case of James Moriarty, he could do that. He also knew where to find those who were as destructive and hell bent and bored as he was."

"A manipulator," John said.

Sherlock nodded. "He was excellent. Brilliant, too, in his own way. He ensured that I would have to jump because his orders to stand down did not rely on his verbal or physical cues. It was mine."

"He even used you."

"Hmm. I was glad to discover he could not do what I did and he really and truly is deceased." Sherlock wrinkled his nose in distaste. "I suppose it means that it will be quieter now. No one pulling the strings."

"So it doesn't look like some idiot is going to come in and fill in the hole Moriarty left behind?"

"Mycroft is keeping an excellent eye on things. I believe he has retained Lestrade as part of a new task force to keep the hole from being filled as you so nicely put it."

John smiled. "So that's what he meant when he said he was getting a promotion."

"Though whether it was because my brother felt it was owed as an apology or as a courtship gift remains unknown."

"Wait--your brother and Greg?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "I try not to think about. I recommend you do the same."

John shook his head. "All right then. Weirder things and all that." He licked his lips. "You're not a sociopath. Anyone with that diagnosis would have let his so-called friends die rather than die himself."

"I realize that." Sherlock sat back against the couch and looked up at the ceiling. "I am not one given to introspection, John. Criminals are more entertaining and there are certain diversions when criminals aren't enough. However, being on the run with sometimes little to do in some hours, I had nothing else to divert my attention. My usual chemicals would leave me unable to do the work and finding a boxing club or some sort would only attract attention to myself. I unfortunately was drawn inside my own mind and my emotional reactions.

"I knew that dying for others to live, dying for my friends to live, meant I couldn't be a sociopath. I grudgingly gave up on the diagnosis as a defining characteristic. Having given it up, I wondered at myself and how I felt for those that Moriarty had targeted. Why them? Mycroft would never have been--our animosity is too well known and he is too well watched. Molly spends far too much time in the basement of St. Bart's to be a problem. I'm sure she willingly told Moriarty how dismissive I was of her and her advances. No, there were indeed only three people in my life I would ever count as a friend and not just someone I happened to know.

"Lestrade was obvious. Friendship bourne out from the years of work together. He let us know when he was being forced to arrest me. He helped us escape, remember? He was the first one to tell everyone to do as I said. He was the first to put his career on the line when I started helping Scotland Yard. Even if he is in Mycroft's back pocket, he is a dear friend. Mrs. Hudson--well, I did almost kill a man because he hurt her." Sherlock smiled and John chuckled.

"And you, John." Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "How did you know I wasn't a fraud?"

"You said you researched me," John said. "Our last conversation then. Mike didn't know I was back home from the front or that I was looking for a flat. But he would have been the only one to call you and say that I needed a flatmate. Even if the rest had been researched possibly, you couldn't have known about the army without Mike telling you."

Sherlock smirked. "Brilliant."

"Took me months to work that one out. I knew you couldn't be a fraud, but everyone wanted some solid reason. That one wasn't much, they all said it was just a slip of the tongue. There was only one time that ever happened to you--you don't do slips of the tongue."

Sherlock frowned. "One time?"

John raised his eyebrows. "Really? Adler. You stumbled. Okay, not a slip of the tongue, but for you it might as well have been the same."

"You are amazing, John Watson."

"So. Us."

Sherlock nodded and cleared his throat. "I must admit that hunting Moriarty's network and destroying it introduced me to a very odd feeling. On every important case I've taken since we've been introduced, you were with me. My back up. My partner. The last years without you, I've found myself turning to you even though you weren't there. I don't understand my reaction, but I do know that it means in my daily life, I want you there."

John swallowed hard. "Do you know, a friend of mine said something to me that told me more than I think he meant for it to? He was telling me to not forget that I can be a man who settles down and doesn't run around London at all hours. And I guess I am. But here's the thing, Sherlock. When you left, I moved out of here and met Mary and I can't live in London that way if you're here. I'll be making sure you eat and be polite and put up with all the stupid things you do and get up to. And honestly, Sherlock, that is not normal for friends. I might as well be your partner. No, not your business partner. You know what I mean."

Sherlock blinked. "Can't we just leave it at blogger?"

"I wish I could," John said. "But when you left, when I thought you were dead, part of me died. It honestly did. I have lost friends. One of them just last year committed suicide--he couldn't adjust to civilian life. I knew him at St. Bart's and we enlisted together and got through the front together. And I lost him. I admit I didn't know him quite as well as I had, but I did know him, he was a good friend. And yet when he died, I didn't feel the engulfing emptiness as I did when I lost you."

"I don't know how to define our friendship any more than you do. And I'm not quite sure why we have to."

"Sherlock, can you honestly tell me that you want to see me going on dates again? In the future, will you let me go out and try to have a relationship?"

Sherlock looked away, distaste written all over his face. "If you wanted."

"You'd rather I didn't, though."

"So don't if you're going to be like that."

John groaned and rubbed his face. "Sherlock Holmes, look at me and be honest."

Sherlock turned with a glare. "You're not gay."

"True, I'm not. You're married to your work."

Sherlock's eyes were almost quicksilver as they tumbled this problem over in his head. John carefully reached out and laid his hand on Sherlock's knee. "I'm not gay, but I think I love you as much as I loved Mary. I don't ever want to see you naked or give you orgasm or anything sexual. But I love you and I don't see you hurt and I want to make sure you don't waste away from hunger and I want to scream at you because you left eyeballs next to the fruit."

"Domestic."

"Truth."

Sherlock took a sharp breath. "I had moments when I was gone when your name was a litany in my head. I thought I was incapable of anything resembling romantic love. I am proven wrong."

"So we're clear then?"

"Yes."

John nodded and stood up. "Good. Dinner?"

Sherlock's nose wrinkled.

And that was that.


End file.
